Ex-Snow Globe!! -25.11.23-
Saturday Ramblings of an Old Snow Globe....xx
A smile drifted across his face and I waved in his direction from across the way, getting the same transparent sense about him as I always had in the past. So beautiful and high-strung as opposed to the image he portrays of being strung out. I had a thought about him being a sexual narcissist but I already had him down as having a narcissistic personality disorder. There is no crossover between the two and sexual narcissism is not a mental health condition or disorder, out of the two I’m sticking with the first conclusion. Maybe, he really is that sought after, maybe everyone does love to fuck and be fucked by him. Maybe, he really is the Don on the pussy as he says.
In stark contrast I am here shovelling sensual snow. I wonder if he’d give me sex life I’ve never had before. I know the kind I like. The stuff love’s made of and that doesn’t sound like his rough cuppa tea at all. Sex with me puts minds at ease, like the best music, releases pockets of tension from their being at least - so it seems. There’s something about him that sends my temporal senses into limbo. There’s a quiet intimacy he hits in me, a blending of time and space, a perfect self-contained form of communication from my pussy in this messy bed.
I guess that I felt full of righteous indignation when he left me to wait here. I worshipped him, his aura and everything his shiny symbolism represents in bed. Where does the sex stop being a thing of the mind? I picture him and taste his balls much more vividly now he’s gone than in my waking reality. I felt a self-bound meeting of souls. Two people who joined together respecting each other’s illusions and images. I wonder if I had an image to portray would he hate my image just the same as he hates the real me underneath? I have no image to keep. Where does technique begin? How far in sex does the REAL THING go? How much of him is part of the act? I have caught him in the cross-hair of the REAL and IMAGINARY.
No one could accuse me of not keeping up with my side of the non-communication between us. Does every single male on the planet set out to give me a hard time? I wonder was it just my bad luck or a fundamental flaw I have that caused me to be swerved from the first part of the matinee? My Dignity deflated when he looked my way and dismissed my waving hand. Staring at my face whilst avoiding making eye contact the entire time, walking fast, past me like instinct-blinded salmon. Oh! Charming. I waded through waves of irritability and other emotions not knowing where the line was between me and shadow.
I called him up on the telephone again later that day and when he realised it was me on a brand new number he said; “Oh Hello Chasey!” without a flicker of interest or remorse. My heart was pounding beneath my breast, the only sound between us was like a vast ocean, phone lines dampened the sounds of distance and disgrace like double glazed window panes.
I said his name and he cried. I heard his tears louder than life and just as oppressed. Unless we fix this disconnection, without communication there is no real connection. Sexual chemistry is not something we can dine out on forever, never since he left to fly high above the averages of my fixation. He begged me to wait for him and forgive his missing place at the head of the table in our house of cards.
He suggested that it was not my fault. For the first time I realised he was lying. I always took the blame before. I always was the one who strayed. He had always stayed. Now he was thousands of light years away from this battered betrayed place and I missed him for miles on end.
I answered in the only image I could find to replace the hard-face I tried to keep going whenever we were close. Just knowing I could touch him made my mind erode. I am an unfinished piece of work - he agreed on the last three words - I am not very grown. “Does growing up mean becoming more conventional?” I cried down the receiver to the non-believing bleeder, or am I an arrested development. His reply was irrelevant.
I didn’t even recognise his voice anymore but it must have subconsciously sunk in because, out of nowhere it hit me like a jolt of fork lightning. I was back in the room swimming with him between my thighs and Bob Dylan’s whining voice going on about some hard rain. I wished I could hear his voice and see his whole repertoire of expressions. I imagine his lips curling up like the Joker’s confusion. I love him.